


Broken soul

by Lumeriel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Gay Sex, M/M, Vampire Bites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27064072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumeriel/pseuds/Lumeriel
Summary: AU: Instead of dying in his confrontation with Morgoth, Fingolfin was taken prisoner. Sauron did experiments on him and now Fingolfin is a vampire?
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Broken soul

**Author's Note:**

> Confession: I found this while going through the file of 'fics that I will never finish' and well ... since I am trying to write an original vampire story, I decided I would leave this here.
> 
> If nobody notices it, much better; but I'm compulsive when it comes to posting things about these two.

Fëanor contemplates Fingolfin. Millennia have passed since he last saw him, and it is difficult to reconcile the memory of the proud and stern prince who followed him out of Aman with the young elf asleep between the rumpled sheets. Finwë's second son's dream is restless, disturbed by nightmares, and memories. Before, during the ambush, Fëanor has seen the transformation of his half-brother into a beast that destroyed with teeth and claws the enemies; but now, with dark hair spilling onto the pillows - too long for a man - with his lips pursed into a pout, his cheek pressed against his forearm, Fingolfin looks unexpectedly vulnerable.

  
  


Fingolfin. What a ridiculous name. Finwë Nolofinwë. King Nolofinwë. Cocky clown.

Fëanor mutters under his breath, his gaze running over the younger's tense body. Younger. How exactly does that look in the current circumstances? As long as he remained dead for five thousand years and only reincarnated a decade ago, Nolofinwë has survived them all, a prisoner in the dungeons of Angband and then in the tunnels of Mordor, under the rule of Sauron Gorthaur, bound to his will and black magic, until being one of his beasts. Morgoth ignored for centuries that his lieutenant accomplished the unthinkable: ensnare the soul of an elda against its will. Although, in a way, Fingolfin died the moment the Maia chained his spirit to the body he had left behind. Nurulindë refuses to share her memories of the elven king's presence in Mordor, saying only that he is more and less than an elda.

  
  
  


Fingolfin flaps on the bed, kicking the blanket free and a deep sigh lifts his broad bare chest. Fëanor follows with his eyes the scars on his torso: the wounds obtained during the crossing of the Helcaraxë, during the fighting in Beleriand, during his duel with Morgoth ... the marks where Thorondor's claws sank to tear him from the hands of the Dark Vala, the scars from Sauron's experiments, the whip marks that never received adequate attention, the traces of torture that Fëanor cannot imagine.

  
  
  


Fëanor watches the frown and evokes the wild passion that marred his half-brother's features when he spotted Fingon. He remembers the leap with which Fingolfin pounced on his eldest son, the way their hands sought each other, tracing faces and muscles in an exploration that is more of lovers than of father and son. He remembers the despair that burned in Fingolfin's blue-gray eyes when he finally saw Aredhel again, and the force with which his hands gripped Turgon to bury him in his chest as if he were a child again. But more than that, he remembers the devotion with which Idril kissed his grandfather's hands, bathing the scars on his palms and wrists with his tears, as if those hands had given her life. Remember the unconditional love that Fingolfin offered to his grandson, to the one who betrayed his son, to the one who sold himself to Morgoth. And remember the silent understanding between him and the female born in Mordor, under the dark influence of Gorthaur. Nurulindë: song of death. Both have on their bodies the marks of their stay in the Maia states. They both know the horrors of Mordor and the mind of Sauron, and Fëanor feels that he has been left out of something special.

  
  
  


Fingolfin groans and arches, exposing the taut muscles under skin marked with black and red patterns that run from shoulder blades to hips. The scar on his left cheek deepens, sending shadows of terror to his clenched mouth. Before thinking twice, Fëanor finds himself sitting on the bed, pulling his half-brother into his lap and rocking him like an infant. Suddenly, those years when Fingolfin was a thin, restless child seem unexpectedly sharp, and a warmth he had forgotten fills his heart. Fëanor realizes that there was a time when he had almost - almost - loved Nolofinwë.

  
  


Nolofinwë was a lovable child, all Noldorin, curious, dark, energetic, and eager to learn.

  
  
  


Fëanor makes himself comfortable on the bed and holds his frozen body against him. Fingolfin is sweating, his limbs shuddering as single words escape his lips. Fëanor does not recognize the meaning; but he recalls the pallor of his son Maedhros, who explained hoarsely: "It is a black tongue, the language of the servants of Morgoth Bauglir." 

Patiently, he digs his fingers into the loose hair and massage Fingolfin’s scalp while murmuring in Quenya. He begins by saying random phrases; but before he knows it, he slides into a children's story, one of the many legends that he told his sons when they were infants. Fingolfin stirred once more in his arms ... another ... and slowly, he calmed down until he lay calm, breathing evenly as if he were listening with all his soul - what remains of it - the lilting voice of his older brother.

  
  
  
  
  


The touch on his throat wakes him up. For a moment, he allows himself to lie still, feeling the softness that runs through his skin, traces the curve of his jaw, breathes under his ear. Thousands of years have passed since he experienced someone's touch so intimately, he remembers with a sigh. Then he realizes that Nerdanel is in Aman, that he is in Endorë, and that it is definitely not his wife who is caressing him.

  
  


He lifts his eyelids to find himself in the dark and again that delicate touch climbs his neck before descending towards his shoulder. One hand runs along his side, drawing the muscles, while the other tangles in his hair, pulling gently to force him to expose his throat.

  
  


Nolofinwë. Realization hits him, stunning him just as a mouth meets his, eagerly. He does not react to the tongue that slides between his lips, he explores calmly, runs over his teeth, probes the walls of his mouth... Without knowing how, he feels his body fully awaken before the sinuous exploration. For a second, he wonders what the hell his half-brother is doing, why is he seducing him like this… but that thought vanishes in the gesture with which Fingolfin grips his lower lip with his teeth and pulls imperceptibly. His sex hardens between his thighs and immediately, the hand that rested on his hip moves along the hem of his pants. Fingolfin's fingers don't waver when they unzip his fly and Fëanor fidgets when his cock is released from restraints to stand proud. The other male's breath caresses his neck as his fingertips run over the stiff flesh. Gods !, it is a forgotten delight and the blood flows hot throughout his body. Instinctively, he arches into the hand that strokes and touches. Fingolfin understands the silent order and puts his whole hand around the cock. Fëanor throws his head back, indulging in the rhythm set by his half-brother. He spreads his legs as he clings to the other's body, burying his fingers in hair and hard muscles. He feels Fingolfin's erection against his hip and the need to touch him is so strong that for a moment he gasps for breath. He's not even sure what he's doing when he searches for his half-brother's clothes to unleash his rough sex.

  
  
  


With an effort, he gazes down at the glorious hardness that crowns Fingolfin's crotch. It's a lovely cock and Fëanor gazes at the black pearl that adorns the glans, wondering how it would feel to have "it" inside. Before he can analyze his thoughts, Fingolfin kisses him on the mouth again and this time, he responds, fighting for control. 

  
  


Their kiss is wet and wild, their mouths too open, as if they wanted to devour each other and their tongues search the space between them when they separate to breathe. Fingolfin releases him, licking his chin and nibbling before lowering his taut neck. Fëanor waves beneath him, offering himself not knowing what will happen next. He has no idea how two males are supposed to find pleasure in the contact of their bodies; but apparently his body does have an idea because his skin burns and his cock moves, looking for more of that contact.

  
  


Fingolfin slides down his torso, licking and kissing. He stops on one nipple to suck and bite until the older one moans and arches, digging his heels into the mattress. Finally, he goes lower, depositing light kisses at the junction between the thigh and the abdomen. He takes his time to rub the tip of his nose against the skin, absorbing the powerful manly scent.

  
  


Fëanor flinches when his half-brother's tongue explores his testicles, very slowly, until they are tense with arousal and breathing is an impossible task. Only then does Fingolfin stand on his hips and take his cock with his right hand to guide it to his mouth. 

Fëanor groans hoarsely, cursing all Valar, and rampaging through the warm moisture. Fingolfin does not seem bothered by the violent thrusts that bring the cock to his throat: patiently, he accommodates himself to allow the column of overexcited flesh and nerves to reach deeper, passing the muscles that girdle the head with gentle vibrations. Fëanor roars and tugs at the hair that spills over his thighs and belly: he's so close to orgasm that he barely understands that this is the first time he has… He explodes with a wild moan, convulsing in the support of Fingolfin's arms. He keeps ramming his half-brother's mouth as he ejaculates generously. A part of his brain registers that it is the best orgasm of his life and a moment later, his limbs relax, overcome by ecstasy.

  
  
  


Fingolfin sits up on one elbow and Fëanor watches him through curved lashes, seeing the gesture with which he licks his lips to clean the remains of semen. It's the sexiest image he's ever seen and he can't look away even as Fingolfin leans over him and rests his lips on the pulse beating beneath his jawbone. He feels his brother's tongue pressing against the heartbeat and in a flash, Fëanor understands what Fingolfin wants. Tilt head to one side, offering arched throat. A shudder runs through his body as the fangs sink into his flesh, almost delicately.

  
  


Pleasure overflows through his veins like fever. His body burns from the inside, burning the flesh, exploding behind his eyes. He moves impatiently against his half-brother, sinking a hand into his hair, twisting his fingers as if he wanted to push him away and at the same time shoving those fangs down his throat until they suck all his life out of him, and his cock is hard again, his hips waving to find more, more... more. He feels the hands caressing his thighs, parting them almost delicately, the slight thrust at his entrance… 

The pain arches him, causing the fangs to tear his skin, and his insides burn. Fingolfin's breath is pure fire on his neck, in his mouth, and for a second, the claws hold his hips to allow the ram of flesh and desire to sink deeper into him. Longing, panting uncontrollably, he pulls his brother up to meet his mouth and breathes into it, unable to kiss him, moaning hoarsely with each thrust. Blood runs down his chest; but Fingolfin ignores it, pending only this new satisfaction. 

They do not speak: their bodies thrust in sync, their voices rise in the same gasp, their nails wound and tear in equal measure. Fëanor's sex burns between their bellies, stiff, hungry. Fingolfin massages his butt, pinching, while sending into his mind the images of how he will ride his cock later ... and that is enough for Fëanor to roar and explode. And right away, Fingolfin follows, filling him with his seed, roaring at the base of his neck.

  
  
  


Hours seem to have passed when the soft licks bring Fëanor back to reality. Fingolfin is licking the blood on his neck; but once it is over, he descends to clean the semen remains on his abdomen.

  
  
  


Fëanor digs his fingers into his hair and gently brushes it. 

  
  


When he has finally devoured all the fluids from his skin, Fingolfin stands tall and watches him with eyes so clear they seem like glass. Fëanor pulls him to wrap his arms around him. A shudder runs through Fingolfin and he begins to cry. His brother just hugs him for a bit, before starting to gently kiss his face. At that moment he decides: no one else is going to feed Fingolfin.


End file.
